He hated Thursdays. More than the stench of fermented water in a vase. More than the stench of some brainless healer's cologne and the smell of sweat - his own - that had accumulated until his lungs ached over days of agony, convulsions and the after-effects of Mungo's incompetent potions. More than himself. More than the whole fucking world, which had mocked him for yet another countless time. He hated Thursdays. They always smelled of poison. They smelled of marigolds and jasmine and the dreams of childhood. The ones in which there were no tears from his mother, no screams from his father, no eyes from Lily. There was no mistake made, no rage and darkness. Life - black, dirty and locked in a scarlet vice.
Her footsteps were almost always audible from the corridor. A light step toward this figure was unthinkable. She sat on the left. On the edge. And brought fresh flowers. The rustle of a new issue of the potion magazine was almost immediately replaced by her voice, reading true novels without a soul. There was never a spark in her. Passion. Always monotonous and boring. Like at school. She never talked about anything. She didn't complain about her fate or bask in praise like the other idiots.
On her first visit, she relayed only a handful of dry facts: Harry won, the Dark Lord was dead, the war was over, he survived and was after Nagini's bite in St. Mungo's. In a coma. That day, Severus couldn't believe his ears. He clung to the hope that this was just some elaborate nightmare. But the day passed. The next one came...and another...Another. The thick-headed healers were pouring the kind of scum into him that Severus himself wouldn't have accepted from a one-armed first-year.
Potter arrived three days later—right after his girlfriend, Granger. He stood silently by his bed on the right, breathing too loudly, annoyingly. He sniffed through his nose for three hundred and seventy-two seconds until he suddenly burst into desperate sobs. His clammy, trembling hands clutched Severus' wrists. His hair tickled his skin as he hugged him like a bear. Like a feeble, annoying child, he cried and mumbled incoherently.
That Severus was a hero. That he was ashamed of how he had treated him all these years. That he was grateful.
Disgusting.
If his body had been under his control, he would have shoved the brat away without hesitation.
Kingsley looked in a week later.
"I hope you're really alive, Sev."
Was there really no one else to delegate the dirty work to? They should all go to hell and just let him die.
Every Thursday, every damned morning, Granger came and read aloud to him. She alone. No one else came. And Severus hated everyone who had kept him alive. But he hated Granger most of all. And Thursdays, those days that reminded his fading mind of the hope that had died deep within his charred soul.
---
Hermione quietly closed the door to Snape's room and stepped out into the now familiar corridor. Thursday was the only day of the week that she… loved? No. Not love. More like… it was the only day that mattered – even the slightest bit – in her colourless life. All the other days were lost, confused, and faded. The sun did not shine in the morning, and at night even the brightest moon seemed pale. The war was over. And they had won. At the cost of children's lives and a thousand unjust victims. At the cost of death. Wizards, parents, mentors, innocents. Because of just… one thing.
Him.
Voldemort. Tom Riddle. In her thoughts, Hermione called him vile creature. Not out of fear, not out of habit. On principle, she did not pronounce his name even in her head. The bastard did not deserve to be mentioned – anywhere.
"You're here again?" — a tired voice got tangled in Hermione's hair. Ron approached so silently that she shuddered. Hermione did not answer this strange question. There was nothing to answer. She silently walked forward, hearing Ron follow her.
Mr. Weasley was bad. The last curse that had hit him in the final battle had spread throughout his body too quickly. He was unlikely to survive. Everyone understood that. And perhaps it was much more terrible to see your loved one die than to simply lose him suddenly in an instant. To cherish hope, not being able to do anything.
Observer.
She sympathized so much with Ron, but ... she could not give him anything but dry words.
"Will you come to us?" he asked quietly, as soon as he was by the fireplace.
"Thank you, but ..."
"Yes, as always," he interrupted. "See you," grabbing the gunpowder, he said goodbye quietly.
Hermione was ashamed. The Weasleys had always been kind to her, and she to them. But it was as if the month had passed and all that meaning had evaporated. Childhood was over, adulthood had never arrived. All that was left was the gunpowder on their skin and the endless list of people who would never be with them again.
Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Colin, Luna, Professor Flitwick, Hagrid.
Hundreds of wizards, dozens of young magicians. Gone forever. Only names and brief memories will remain of them. How… painful it was to end up in this world. How terrible it was to see such cruel fates.
Her gaze turned again to the far door of the small room. With each passing day, Hermione increasingly felt that she had to save at least this life. No one cared about Snape. His figure had been in the shadows for so many years. Almost invisible, imperceptible and inaudible. The discovery of his love for Lily Potter… Well. It was a little unusual. But as if everything in this story was… too simple. Not at all like it could have been in Snape's life, or so it seemed to her. As if a beautiful story was just… a wrapper. However, it didn't matter.
Snape evoked conflicting feelings in her. She certainly respected him and considered him the most powerful wizard. Perhaps she was a little afraid, and he had certainly irritated her during the times he had demonstratively disregarded her knowledge in his class. But there was something else. Something elusive. Like… pity? No. Certainly not that. Hermione was more… saddened by his story. A tragic fate, unrequited love, service in exile - all for the sake of a lonely, painfully cruel and slow withering away under the gaze of his rare guests' weakness. Too unfair.
In her mind, tired, no doubt, there still beat the hopes of the old fortitude and echoes of the old love. For honesty, for justice, for the truth that had always eluded them.
Why had everyone around them abandoned it so easily?
It was probably all too complicated. As usual. And his motives weren't as simple as they seemed.
No matter. As long as she can, as long as he doesn't wake up and throw her out, humiliating, insulting and shouting at her, Hermione will continue to come.
After all, except for Thursdays, time in her life flowed like an eternity.